Waterspouts on Lake Michigan

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Saturday, September 22, was the first day of autumn 2012. It was also my first-ever time seeing waterspouts. I’ve chased them a few times (if chased is the right word) previously within the past two years, but not successfully. This time made up in spades for those occasions. I don’t know how many waterspouts I saw, but “lots” ought to cover them, including one that made landfall about a hundred yards north of me at Tunnel Park. I managed to capture that one on video. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I woke up at 5:15 a.m., showered up, and headed for the lakeshore. The ICWR waterspout forecast indicated a high probability of waterspouts all along the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, and the main concern seemed to be simply finding adequate near-shore convection. That didn’t seem to be a problem, since a line of thunderstorms was moving across the lake from Wisconsin and heading east almost straight at me. Based on the line’s slightly southern component, I decided to head for Holland Beach.

A nice cumulus field had overspread West Michigan as I pulled into the state park. At the entrance, a ranger informed me of restricted parking due to a marathon that was being routed through the park by the beach. The racers hadn’t yet arrived; in fact, very few people were present, and having the parking lot mostly to myself, I chose an optimal spot where I had an unimpeded view of Lake Michigan.

The stiff lake breeze concerned me. Westerly surface winds–and strong ones at that–didn’t seem to me to bode well for waterspouts. How would the convergence necessary for spout formation occur over the water with unidirectional winds? Still, the waterspout index was maxed out, and here I was, so I guessed I would find out.

After a while, the western sky began to darken. The storms were moving in, but they would take a while to arrive. Meanwhile, a green blob of convection on GR3 corresponded with a cloud bank stretching perpendicularly from the waters to the shore about ten miles to my south. It seemed worth checking out, so I grabbed my camera and headed across the beach toward the pier near the lighthouse. From that vantage point, I finally got a good, complete view of the convective band.

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A slim, well-defined gray tube hung from the distant cloud base. Bingo! My first waterspout! I began snapping pictures.

The salmon run was on, and all along the channel, fishermen were having a heyday. Focused on fish, they seemed oblivious to the elegant spectacle unfolding over the water. How could they not see it? I pointed it out to one fisherman. “Wow! A waterspout!” he said. Then he went back to his fishing. To each his own, though I suppose he could fish and watch the spout at the same time.

I don’t know how much time passed–fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. By and by, the spout dissipated, and I returned to my car. I didn’t need to look at my radar to know that the storm was closing in. I could see the lowering clouds and rain shafts over the water.

What the radar did tell me, however, was that heavier convection was heading toward the Saugatuck/South Haven area. So, as the first of the marathoners began to trickle into the park, I decided to drop south toward where chasers Skip Talbot, Jennifer Ubyl, and Jonathan Williamston were located.

I got as far as US 31 before realizing that I had made a tactical error. Heavier convection was beginning to fire in a line that promised to train in directly over Holland Beach. Nuts. I had just compromised myself by fifteen minutes, and in the meantime, a marathon had gotten underway. I turned around and headed back toward my old location, but now the road was filled with runners and closed to traffic.

I decided to head for Tunnel Park just a few mile north of Holland Beach. But Lakeshore Drive was also clogged with marathoners. Thus began a frustrating quarter-hour of driving down sideroads and through neighborhoods, trying to gain access to the lakeshore. Ultimately, I wound up pulling over kitty-corner across the road from the park entrance, watching morosely as runners ran by. But there was a cop standing next to his car, shepherding the crowd, and … what the heck. I walked up to him and asked him if I could cross into the park. Sure, he said. The race ended officially right at this point. Just look for an opening, the cop told me, and then I could nudge my car across the road.

Free!

shelf-cloud-at-tunnel-park
The storm was arriving as I pulled into the park, and rain had begun to fall. I grabbed my cameras and raced toward the tunnel. The other end opened out onto the beach, affording a sheltered location where I could watch for spouts without getting wet. It was a perfect setup.

The only other people there at the park were a young ethnic couple with a baby and a small child. I greeted them and talked with them about waterspouts as we watched a shelf cloud advance over the storm-driven surf. After a few minutes, the guy pointed toward the lake and said, “Is that one?” I looked, figuring it was a false alarm, some turbulent scrap of scud ascending along the shelf cloud. But no, he was pointing at the water, where a rotating patch of spray was clearly visible. It was only a couple hundred yards away, small but unmistakable. Waterspout!

waterspout_tunnel-park
And now another, larger one was organizing to my northwest. I could see no funnel, but then, the shelf cloud was now almost directly overhead, and features that might have been obvious at a distance were lost in the jumble of clouds. Regardless, the rotating cascade looked intense. I grabbed my camcorder. There was no time to set up the tripod; I would have to manage the best I could with hand-held. I hit “record” and began shooting the waterspout as it progressed toward the shoreline.

At first, it appeared to be heading toward us, which didn’t concern me. The waterspout was non-tornadic, and while it obviously packed some strong winds, I felt that the greatest threat it posed was a nasty sand-blasting. We could retreat into the tunnel if necessary.

But the spout made landfall about one hundred yards to my north. I ran out onto the beach to try to capture more of it as it progressed up over the foredune, but I was too late, and that section of my footage turned out pretty wobbly. Still, I had about forty-five seconds of shaky but ultra-cool footage of a Lake Michigan waterspout hitting the shore at close range. The first thirty seconds is the best, but I’ve chosen to show the whole shebang because I think there are some points of interest in the latter part, flawed though it is.

Back at my car, the radar indicated more intense convection headed toward Grand Haven. After sending a report to Spotter Network, I got onto Lakeshore Drive and began heading north. The stream of runners had thinned out, and the road was open, though still patrolled by the police. A little ways north of the park entrance, I noticed a “damage path” of tree trash–clusters of leaves and large twigs–scattered across the pavement. The road was only a quarter-mile from the shore, and I have no idea how far inland the waterspout made it before dissipating, but I suspected that a few runners had gotten quite a surprise.

Up at Grand Haven, a cloud bank to my northwest put down a series of spouts. These were much farther offshore and not particularly impressive at the time I viewed them, though I’ve seen some stunning photos by another spout chaser from the same location. After a while, the waterspout activity dwindled off, but I’d gotten my fill and was glad to head back east.

Back in Grand Rapids, I processed my video of the spout at Tunnel Park and attempted to send it to WOOD TV8. But the ftp upload failed, so rather than waste more time, I stopped by the station and let their tech handle things. The footage got aired on the evening news.

lowtop-thunderstorm_lowell
After that, I somehow wound up in Lowell. It was a lovely, moody day, perfect for the first day of fall, and I guess I just felt like a drive. Anyway, I found myself on the waterfront, watching ragged cumulus clouds drift over the broad, windblown face of the Flat River. To the north, a small, low-top storm billowed up above its less successful convective comrades and spread its cirrus anvil eastward. It was a beautiful sight, as was the entire sky, and I couldn’t resist taking a few more pictures. The last view on this page looks to the south, where the Lowell Showboat rests at its dock just upstream from the Flat River Grill and the dam beneath the startlingly blue September sky.

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And that is that. Two days later, the same intensely azure sky prevails and this chill wind testifies that autumn is indeed at hand. The trees are still mostly green, but change is in the air. My hunch is, we won’t be getting a “second season” for storm chasing. If not, Saturday was wonderful compensation and will see me through to next spring.

September 24, 2012 by
Filed Under: Michigan, Nature, Outdoors, Photography, Storm Chasing, Tornadoes, Uncategorized, Video, Weather Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Bob Hartig Plays “Giant Steps”

At long last, I’ve gotten my chops for Giant Steps changes up to speed enough that I’m ready to share a recording with you. It has taken me months of practicing to get to where I’m beginning to convert licks and patterns into original statements. That’s not an easy thing to do with this tune, and I freely admit that there are a few rough spots here. But there are also some ones that I’m quite proud of. I particularly like the opening statement–I don’t know where it came from, but I’m glad it found its way into and out of my horn.

In another few months, I hope to have advanced to where I’m playing still more freely and inventively and am ready to do another recording. For now, though, this one will serve as a mile marker to document my progress. Without further ado, here is me playing Giant Steps

The background, by the way, is Band-in-a-Box, which served fine for this purpose. Big thanks to my good friend Ed Englerth for gifting me with his sound engineering wizardry in his Blueside Down recording studio. You make me sound good, amigo!

September 22, 2012 by
Filed Under: Jazz, Jazz Improvisation and Technique, Music, Recording, Saxophone Tagged With: , , , ,

Two Giant Steps Licks

Lately, my book The Giant Steps Scratch Pad has enjoyed a modest spate of sales. I appreciate that musicians take an interest in it. On my part, it was a labor of love, and it’s gratifying when you, my readers, find it worthwhile enough to shell out your hard-earned cash to obtain a copy. Every purchase is a shot of morale for me, not to mention a nice dent in my electric bill.

As a way of saying thanks, I thought I’d share with you a couple of favorite new Giant Steps licks that I’ve been practicing. They correspond to the A section of Giant Steps’ A-B form and have a bebop flavor to them.

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Since I’m an Eb alto saxophonist, I’ve written the licks out for my instrument. C, Bb, F, and bass clef instruments will need to transpose accordingly. ‘Nuff said. Without further ado, here are the licks. Click on the image to open and enlarge it.

September 8, 2012 by
Filed Under: Jazz, Jazz Improvisation and Technique, Music, Saxophone, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,

Should Church Musicians Get Paid?

Should church musicians get paid, or should they be expected to provide their talents for free to the body of Christ? I have no hard, fast answer. I’m simply putting the question on the table because it deserves more consideration than it is often given.

In the past, no church ever offered to pay me for my services as a musician, and I never expected nor asked to be paid. I was happy to do what I did gratis in service to God. However, the church I now attend does pay me–not a large amount, but a meaningful amount, enough that it adds up and helps me pay the bills. More, it provides a tangible expression of appreciation and respect. As the old adage says, it’s the thought that counts. My musical abilities haven’t come to me freely, quickly, or easily, and it’s nice to have that fact recognized and valued

My involvement with this church started over a year ago with an invitation to sit in with their contemporary worship team. I received fifty bucks for doing so and was invited to sit in again whenever and as often as I chose. The openness of that arrangement has been ideal for where I’m at in life. I’ve found myself playing with the team more often than not, and in the process, I’ve been drawn to other aspects of the church as well, relationships being foremost.

When I first became a Christian more than thirty years ago, the presiding attitude toward musicians in the churches I attended was that we were to play strictly “the Lord’s music.” If it didn’t have an overtly Christian message, then it wasn’t appropriate material for a Christian musician. Not anytime, anywhere. That worldly stuff just didn’t fly.

From a practical standpoint, this theologically flawed taboo on anything other than Christian music and any venues other than church and Christian events was disastrous. The only halfway decent money I made back then as a budding jazz saxophonist was from “secular” gigs. But, wanting to please the Lord–and at the time, I naively mistook the conventions of religious culture for the will of God–I dropped out of the local music scene at the precise time when I should have been forging connections, learning my craft on the bandstand, and making at least some semblance of money.

The sacrifice was one I made willingly, but its financial and vocational implications weren’t understood by those who expected it of me. Churches wanted my musical skills, but none of them thought to compensate me for them; yet they’d have looked at me askance had I used my talent to make a buck or two playing in the clubs. The result was a catch-22 both monetarily and developmentally. And my situation was far from unusual. In that religious culture, it was the norm for musicians.

I’ve told you this story not to whine about the past, but to shed a little light on the realities of being a musician in the church. In doing so, it’s practical to point out that not all church musicians are the same. They have different perspectives toward their craft and invest their time into it accordingly. For most, music is simply a hobby; for a few, however, it is an avocation and even a vocation. For many, music is one small facet of a multifaceted life; but for a handful, it’s a lifestyle and a livelihood. Most church musicians develop enough skill to do a good job meeting the needs of their praise team; but a small percentage practice daily for hours, year after year, to develop abilities that can transform how a praise team sounds.

My purpose in drawing these contrasts is not to create some snobbish and divisive musical caste system. In the words of the apostle Paul, “What do you have that you did not receive? And if you did receive it, why do you boast as though you did not?” (1 Corinthians 4:7). There is no gift any of us is given that doesn’t come from God, and humility is the only appropriate response.

However, it’s still up to every musician to cultivate his or her gift, and some do so to a greater degree than others. That’s how it is in a life that requires prioritization and trade-offs. Those who invest themselves more deeply into the pursuit of musical excellence often pay dues that others know nothing of. As a hobby, music is fun; as a vocation, it is costly in terms of time, finances, and relationships. To pursue music seriously is deeply satisfying, but it can also be disappointing, frustrating, and sometimes heartbreaking, demanding much of one’s life and returning little in the way of making a living.

All this to say that musicians are worthy of their wages. Does that mean churches ought to pay their musicians? That’s for every church to determine for itself based on the realities of its size and budget. If you can’t afford it, then you can’t afford it. But if you can, trust me, it will be much appreciated and well-deserved.

Worship is not a commercial venture. It’s an act of the heart, and I’ve never met anyone in worship ministry who has approached it with any other attitude. No one is in it for the money, any more than pastors take up pastoring because it’s such a lucrative profession. It’s a matter of calling, not cash.

But it still takes cash to make house payments, buy food, and keep the car running and the utilities operable. That’s why Paul wrote,

If we have sown spiritual seed among you, is it too much if we reap a material harvest from you? If others have this right of support from you, shouldn’t we have it all the more?…Don’t you know that those who work in the temple get their food from the temple, and those who serve at the altar share in what is offered on the altar? In the same way, the Lord has commanded that those who preach the gospel should receive their living from the gospel. (1 Corinthians 9:11–14)

While Paul himself chose to forego the privilege he describes above, he makes it plain that those who invest their lives into preaching the gospel have the same needs as anyone else and deserve to have them met. You could argue that Paul was referring exclusively to pastors and preachers. But of course, the early churches didn’t have music ministries, or children’s ministries, or teen ministries, or any of the other ministries and programming that we take for granted today. So I think there’s room to apply the principle to a church’s musicians, at least as much as is practical.

It’s certainly not unscriptural to honor a musician’s investment of time and dedication by helping him or her pay the electric bill. That kind of tangible care and appreciation can make a real difference, not only in the pocketbook but also in the heart.

September 1, 2012 by
Filed Under: Christian Music, Christian Spirituality & Inspiration, Church Worship, Music, Saxophone Tagged With: , , , , , ,

A View from the Air

I initially posted the following humorous piece without any preamble. It subsequently dawned on me that a brief introduction could serve one important purpose: preventing anyone from taking me seriously. The following is strictly fictitious and by no means a true account. The real Bill is indeed a wildman, and I’ve got my own crazy streak, but neither of us is quite as nuts as our fictional alter-egos.

With that understanding established, I present …
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A View from the Air

Copyright ©2012 by Robert M. Hartig
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“Look at those clouds!” said Bill. “You just don’t see that kind of structure from the ground. Chasing storms this high up gives you a whole new perspective.”

“Hmmph,” I grunted. He was right, but I was in no mood to agree.

“See how tiny those farms down there look? What an incredible view!”

I had my own opinion of the view. I felt irritable, and the growing symptoms of airsickness weren’t helping. But Bill was enjoying himself, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

The use of airplanes has recently added a novel wrinkle to storm chasing. After viewing Skip Talbot and Caleb Elliott’s stunning videos of supercells shot from a private plane, Bill and I decided to try our own hand at aerial chasing. So now here we were east of Wichita, circling a storm. Thus does what begins as a half-formed thought escalate into a full-blown idiocy.

A sudden bout of turbulence jolted us. Our fragile craft rose and fell fifty feet in a single second, and my stomach lodged one more protest in an expanding series. The complaints were rapidly approaching the danger level. What would happen once that level got breached was not pleasant to contemplate. It would be great wisdom to avoid such an eventuality. But wisdom hadn’t gotten us up here to begin with, and it couldn’t be counted on to show up now.

The plane had been my idea, which is strange considering I’m normally more cautious than Bill. Our storm chasing partnership spans the better part of two decades, long enough to establish Bill as a maniac and me as a maiden aunt. The combination has worked well and sparked some memorable moments. Tactical conversations between Bill and me typically go like this:

Me: What a monster tornado! It’s going to pass within a quarter mile. That sucker could drop a satellite vortex right on top of us. We need to move.
Bill: Yeah, let’s get closer.

Bill: Wall cloud.
Me: Where?
Bill: Right above us, rotating like crazy.
Me: Oh.
Bill: [Pulls over and parks the car.]

Bill: We’ll just take this shortcut west straight toward the meso and beat it to the main road by at least thirty seconds.
Me: Are you serious? This is little more than a two-track of wet Kansas clay. We get stuck here and we’ll get eaten.
Bill: Trust me. I’ve got four-wheel-drive, I’m doing sixty miles an hour to maintain momentum, and I’m consulting the map as I drive to spare you the stress of discovering that this road doesn’t even show on Street Atlas. You’ve got—whoops, almost hit that gully—absolutely nothing to fear.
Me: Let me know when I can open my eyes.

Me: We were too close.
Bill: I agree.
Me: You do? You’re kidding. Let me feel your forehead. Hmmm … nope, you’re not running a fever.
Bill: Stuff the sarcasm. Now let’s get out of this ditch and see if we can find my car. It can’t have blown far.

You get the picture: just the normal banter between two chasers. Occasionally, though, circumstances get intense. Which brings me back to my story.

After talking it over, Bill and I hit upon a plan for an airborne chase. It was simple and elegant. We would watch the forecast models for a strong storm system to show up, one that displayed good potential for producing classic, well-structured supercells. Then, assuming that the system firmed up as the forecast hours narrowed down, we would locate a private pilot in our target area who was willing to fly us within proximity of a tornado, and we would book several hours with him or her. Our main concern would be to find someone capable of making cool, level-headed decisions in the face of extreme flying conditions, a requirement complicated by the fact that any pilot willing to assist us would necessarily be insane.

An adequate storm system presented itself in due course. More than adequate, in fact. A potent trough promised to dig down into the plains, and with it, the kind of conditions that storm chasers drool over. Three days out, the Storm Prediction Center had already outlooked a moderate risk for much of Kansas. It was time for Bill and me to hunt up our pilot.

You’d be surprised how hard it is to find someone willing to do fly-bys of a tornadic supercell with hundred-mile-an-hour updrafts and downdrafts and baseball-size hail that can shred a small plane in seconds. We’d almost given up when Bill found a private charter service that would take us on.

“The name Lunatic Larry’s Aerial Antics makes me a bit nervous,” I said.

“I know. The company motto bothers me. ‘No One’s Died Yet’ just doesn’t inspire confidence. But we don’t have any choice.”

“I wonder if our boy is on drugs.”

“I asked him about that,” Bill replied. “He said, ‘Hell yes.’”

“That’s good,” I said. “At least he’s properly medicated.”

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Two days later we were in Bill’s Subaru, headed southeast down I-35 on the home stretch toward Lunatic Larry’s hangar just outside Wichita. We were to meet Larry promptly at 6:00. Just to our west, though, storms were already exploding.

“Look, there’s a wall cloud,” Bill said. “Hey—tornado!”

“Not very far away, either,” I said. “It’ll pass just a couple miles to our north.”

We looked at each other. It was only a few minutes after five o’clock. We had time. “Let’s get it,” I said.

By the time we drew within a mile of it, the tornado had grown into a good, solid stovepipe. I glanced upward. We were at the edge of the meso. It looked low, turbulent, and entirely untrustworthy. “Careful, Bill,” I said. “We could get a spin-up anywhere in there.”

“I know, buddy. I just want to get a little closer, get a good look at this thing.”

“Okay. Just don’t get too close.”

“Trust the old pro. I know what I’m doing.”

I rolled my eyes. Here it comes, I thought. Once the Old Pro surfaces, it’s useless to say more. “Fine. Bear in mind that Lunatic Larry keeps our deposit if you get us killed.”

We drew closer to the tornado, which was chewing through a forest and throwing trees hundreds of feet up into the air. By and by I said, “I think we’re too close.”

“Nah, we’re okay,” said Bill. “We can get closer.” A tree flew by in front of us. “Then again, this is probably close enough.”

“Good,” I said, striving to unclench my teeth. “I applaud your restraint.”

“Thank you,” Bill replied, smiling modestly.

“I would even advocate for backing up a smidge,” I added with a relaxed, cheerful grimace. “Better for viewing storm structure.”

A cow tumbled past the windshield with a startled look on its face, mooing above the wind roar. “Okay,” the Old Pro said. Shifting the Subaru into reverse, he backed up ten feet.

This was crazy. I had to think of something quickly or we’d both wind up in pine boxes with little anemometers attached to them, turning gently while an organ played in the background. “Great Scott!” I cried. “Look at the time! We’re supposed to meet Lunatic Larry in ten minutes. These storms are just getting started. There’ll be more tornadoes. We need to drop this one and get our butts to the airport.”

“Nuts, you’re right,” said Bill. “We have to go.” Turning the vehicle around, he headed back south toward the highway.

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Half an hour later, as we soared high above the landscape just below the cloud base, Bill said, “You have to admit, the view up here is spectacular. See down there, those other chasers on the roads way down below? Ha! I’ll bet they’d give their right arms to trade places with us right now!”

“You had to do it, didn’t you,” I replied, peevishly. “You had to make just one more pass at that stupid tornado before we headed to the airport.”

“Hey, how was I to know it was going to wedge out on us? Besides, look where we are now. Didn’t I tell you to trust the old pro?”

He had a point. Actually, the view from a Subaru at 900 feet is pretty decent, probably every bit as good as it would have been from Lunatic Larry’s airplane. Maybe even better. Even a lunatic wouldn’t have gotten us this close.

“It sure is a long-track tornado,” I said as we completed another circuit around the funnel. “You got the live-stream running?”

“You bet. Over ten thousand viewers, last I looked.”

“Good. That’ll help cover expenses. Maybe even hospital bills after we land. I guess we can kiss our deposit with Larry good-bye.”

August 21, 2012 by
Filed Under: Humor, Storm Chasing, Tornadoes, Weather Tagged With: , , ,

Once There Was Night

You cannot find silence anymore, nor can you find the night.

Once there was such a thing as quiet in the countryside, and midnight skies, dusted with silver chips, that stretched from horizon to horizon. But no more. Drive where you will, mile after mile, you cannot escape the taint of man-made light or the sounds of an obtrusive and increasingly uncivilized civilization. The world is noisy, and there is no respite from the noise, nor is the night any longer truly night. No more can you look up and gaze into infinity; the street lights, the farm lights, the headlights, and the glow of distant towns will not let you. We are so well-lit that we can no longer see.

The reality of what we have lost came crashing in on me tonight as I drove out in search of a place to watch the Perseids meteor shower, which as I write is at its peak.

I could not find a suitable location. I am not saying I couldn’t find a place where I could see meteors. Several spots afforded me a decent view of the sky. What I could not find was a place where I felt truly by myself, a place where I could wrap myself in the mystery of a heavens not shrouded with light pollution and contemplate the beauty of the night in silence.

On a gravel road that dropped south from 108th Street, I thought for a moment that I had found a good place to view the Perseids. Parking on the side next to the tall August corn, I got out of my car to watch for shooting stars. The only lights were single farm lights half a mile down the road in either direction. Overhead, the luminous ribbon of the Milky Way wove through a crowd of stars. This location would do.

Then I heard it. Someone was blaring rock music down the road from me. But where? It sounded like it was coming from only a couple hundred feet away, but the source had to be a long way off. Ah, what did it matter? This was crazy. I had driven out into the farmlands in search of darkness and silence, but the noise had found me anyway.

A short while later, I stood by my car at another spot near my town’s athletic fields. I was pleasantly surprised at just how dark–relatively dark, that is–my new location was. A meteor trickled across the east. A dimmer one scratched the sky for half a second, now there, now gone. But what the heck … where was that music coming from? Oh, for crying out loud. Once again I was parked at a place far from houses, and yet it sounded like a bloody band was standing out in the field nearby playing a concert. And now a jet came roaring in toward the airport … and my ears opened up to the sounds of traffic on the nearby roads … nuts. Forget it. I had seen a few meteors and that was enough. I hopped back in my car and headed home.

Now here I am, finishing this post. My wall clock reads 1:17 a.m. A while ago, I could hear voices outside my apartment, but those are gone, and I am left with only the faint susurration of traffic on M-37 and the flesh-colored glow of the parking lot lights.

I could do without them shining through my window. Besides ruining my lightning photos from the balcony when storms pass over, they steal the night. From a security standpoint, I understand the wisdom of having the lights, but I don’t like them. I wish I could get the night back.

Today, fewer people people know what I mean. But I haven’t forgotten.

Once there was night. There still is in some places. You have to drive far north to find it in Michigan, but it’s there to be found. I just wish it was here.

August 12, 2012 by
Filed Under: Life, Nature, Opinion & Editorial, Outdoors Tagged With: , , , ,

Things a Jazz Musician Never Hears Anyone Say

august-10-rain_closed-low
You see this? It’s a rare phenomenon in Michigan called “rain” (pronounced rayn). It began yesterday as a closed 500 mb low settled in over the state, and it looks like it will be with us for a while, as the low seems content to linger. You can see a hint of cyclonic swirl on the radar.

And that’s not all: as I write, just a quarter past noon, the KGRR station ob shows a temperature of only 57 degrees. After a heat wave that has stretched from June into early August, with temperatures in Michigan exceeding the 100-degree mark at times, suddenly it looks and feels like autumn. Yesterday I traded my shorts for blue jeans. Even during a normal summer, that rarely happens.

After a historic, severe drought that has mummified Michigan and crippled much of our nation, this steady rain and respite from the heat is beyond welcome. It is a godsend, and those of us who believe in God thank him for it. “He sends his rain on the just and the unjust”–and to the just and the unjust alike, it is a great beneficence.

Next week there’s the possibility of a trough digging down from Canada across the northern-tier states, with jet energy bringing the potential for severe weather in the Great Lakes sometime Wednesday and/or Thursday. But that’s far from certain at the moment. The GFS has painted some wildly varying scenarios, and the most I can see right now is that both it and the ECMWF agree on troughing, with the Euro painting the more potent picture.

Okay, enough of the weather. Let’s talk about music. A while ago, I posted a status update on Facebook that struck me as pretty funny. I have a great appreciation for my own sense of humor, which is a good thing because it means that I have at least one fan. What I hate is when I tell a really hilarious joke and then I don’t get it. Then I have to explain the punch-line to myself, and that just ruins it. Fortunately, that doesn’t happen often. Most of the time, I break out into spasms of laughter, and people look at me oddly, and … getting back to my Facebook post: I figured that I’d share it here and then add onto it whenever I feel inclined. Feel free to post your own additions in the comments section. Without further ado, here are …

Things which, as a jazz musician, I have yet to hear someone say:

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“Could you turn up the volume? You’re not loud enough.”

“For our first dance, we want you to play ‘Giant Steps.'”

“You want $100 per musician to play at my club? Is that all? I’m doubling your rate. It’s about time you musicians gave yourselves a cost-of-living raise.”

“First tahm playin’ hyeer at the Eyegouge Saloon, eh? Well, I hope yew boys play a lot of Ornette Coleman. Folks hyeer get mighty disturbed if’n they don’t get their Ornette. And another thang: do NOT, if yew value yer life, play ‘Free Bird.'”

“I know we’re an all-white church praise team with three guitars, but we only like playing in the flat keys.”

“What t’hell you mean, you don’t have a trombone player? How can a jazz band not have a trombone? Tell you what: you come back next week with a trombone player and I’ll shell out an extra hunnerd-fifty bucks.”

August 10, 2012 by
Filed Under: Humor, Jazz, Music, Weather, Weather Radar Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Saying Good-Bye to July

Looks like I almost let July slip by without making a single post.

Almost.

I just haven’t felt inspired to write in this blog lately. Weatherwise, what’s to say?

Right–the drought. Frankly, I haven’t felt like writing about the drought. We all know how horrible it has been: day after day and week after week of relentless, rainless heat. No doubt that’s newsworthy, but I’ll let the news media tackle it. From my perspective, it discomforts me, it annoys me, it inconveniences me, and certainly it concerns me, as it should anyone living in the continental United States. To say it has been disastrous is putting it accurately. But while I suppose this drought is severe weather in its own way, it doesn’t interest me the way that a thunderstorm does. Mostly, it’s something I wish would go away, a sentiment shared by millions of Americans roasting in the Midwestern heat.

july-30-2012-ref
Fortunately, it won’t be here forever, and lately the pattern around the Great Lakes has seemed to be nudging slowly but progressively toward a stormier one. As I write, the radar screen for Michigan looks like this (click on image to enlarge it).

I like that: a cold front dropping out of the northwest bringing a nice line of storms and a good dousing of much-needed rain.

Shifting gears to music, there’s not much to say on that topic either. Of course I’ve been staying on top of my instrument, but that’s par for the course. My woodshedding on “Giant Steps” and “Confirmation” continues, along with “Ornithology,” and I’m getting to where I’m starting to shred the bejeebers out of those tunes. But, mmm, yeah, okay, so what. Where do I go from here?

The studio, I think. It’s about time I finally recorded my efforts, put something down for ears besides mine to listen to. Otherwise, why am I bothering with all this practicing of tunes that no one is ever going to call for on a gig? Folks want “Satin Doll,” not Coltrane changes. Still, somewhere out there I think there are people who will take an interest. So I need to get with my buddy Ed Englerth in his Blueside Down Studios and make some noise.

‘Scuze me if I sound a bit cranky. At 56 years of age, I’m rapidly approaching full curmudgeonhood and I am getting in practice for it. The lack of heavy convection and lack of gigs combined is assisting the effort. But a shift in either aspect of that equation will restore my humor and give me something to write about.

No, that’s not right–there’s always something to write about. What I need is something I feel like writing about. Maybe later tonight will do the trick, when that storm line which is presently 50 miles to my north moves in. Hmmm … the cell that is just making landfall near Pentwater is packing straighline winds of nearly 70 knots. That’ll create some interest for folks south of town.

Now to close up shop and see what kind of action we get around here a few hours hence. If it’s nothing more than a good dumping of rain, I’ll be more than happy. But I’m betting it’ll come with a spark and a growl.

July 30, 2012 by
Filed Under: Jazz, Life, Michigan, Saxophone, Weather, Weather Radar Tagged With: , , , ,

A Session with the Doc

This storm season of 2012 started with a bang but then rapidly fizzled into a pathetic whimper. Now summer is here, and with the mid-levels heating up and dewpoint depressions widening to the point where one needs binoculars in order to see the cloud bases, I’m sensing the onset of Supercell Deficiency Syndrome (SDS).

I hate that feeling. Half the time I want to curl up in a dark corner like a giant pillbug of despair, and the other half, I want to go out and beat the tar out of the first stupid simile I encounter and then run naked through a funeral parlor. SDS is not a pretty thing, and mine does not improve as I get older.

So this year I’ve decided to meet the malady at its onset with aggressive therapy. Today I had my first session. As you can see from the following transcript, it went beautifully.

—————

Psychiatrist: Okay, Bob, I’m going to show you a series of images, and I want you to tell me what each of them reminds you of.

Me: A tornado.

Ps: All of them collectively remind you of a tornado? How do you know? You haven’t seen any of them yet.

Me: Nevertheless, they remind me of a tornado.

Ps: All of them?

Me: Try me.

Ps: <Hrrummph!> … Very well, let’s proceed. [Shows me a large black blob on a sheet of white paper.] What does this look like to you?

Me: A tornado. Didn’t I tell you? A niiiiice condensation funnel lowering into the middle of a great big grassland, with really cool suction vortices swirling around its periphery and…

Ps: Yes, yes, that will be fine, Bob. Now what about this image? [Shows me another blob. I don’t know why he’s asking. This one is clearly…]

Me: Wow! AWESOME wedge! Where was that? Is that Manchester? Man, I wish I’d been there!

Ps: Most of my clients see a butterfly.

Me: Yeah, well, most of your clients are several boogers shy of a sneeze. Dang, what a monster!

Ps: [Arching one eyebrow and chuffing thoughtfully on his pipe.] This promises to be an interesting session. [Shows me yet another blob.] Don’t tell me you see a tornado in this too?

Me: Stovepipe. Plus some really nice structure, very impressive. That is one wild-looking tail cloud! Where are you getting this stuff from, anyway? Hey, wait a minute … that looks like one of Mike Hollingshead’s shots from Hill City. I hope you got his permission.

Ps: I don’t know who Mike Hollingshead is, and this is not a photograph. It’s a Rorschach inkblot, and I don’t understand how you’re seeing so much detail in it.

Me: [Chuckling.] I’ve made it my business to notice the details, Doc. For instance, looking at this next image, which is clearly a nice elephant’s trunk, I can see a clear slot wrapping nearly all the way around the funnel. The tornado is in the process of occluding–see how it’s tilting?

Ps: [Leaning in for a closer look.] I’m trying. Hmmm … yeah, I think so. Kind of.

Me: It’s getting set to rope out. Another minute or two and it’ll be gone–and meanwhile, keep your eyes peeled for another circulation to start forming right about where–hmmm …

Ps: What?

Me: We’re in kind of a bad location, Doc. I think we need to reposition.

Ps: Bob, we’re in my office and it’s a beautiful day outside. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.

Me: But …

Ps: Now, what do you see in this next image?

Me: Looks like the same storm, only a couple minutes later. The edge of the meso is right overhead and a cone is starting to drop. Doc, I really think we should …

Ps: [Smiling at me sagely. I hate it when people smile at me sagely.] Bob, trust me, we’re fine right where we are. Repeat after me: “I am not out in the field chasing storms. I am in my therapist’s office. There is no storm. I am perfectly safe.”

Me: There is no storm. I am perfectly safe. But Doc …

Ps: Perfectly safe, Bob. Just tell yourself that. You need to replace your negative self-talk with positive affirmations. Now, let’s take a look at this next … hey, what happened to the sunlight? All of a sudden it’s pitch black outside.

[The sound of a mighty wind swells up out of nowhere, rapidly intensifying to a deafening roar. The windows shatter. One wall rips away, revealing a millrace of debris blasting through the street. A cow flies across the room and a combine crashes through the ceiling, landing directly in front of Doc’s desk. A playful little vortex finger snatches away his toupee. Then, just like that, the pandemonium ceases and all is still except for the clatter of errant pieces of lumber falling to earth.

Doc is still sitting in his chair, wrapped around with pink insulation. His eyeglasses are crooked, his pipe has been replaced with a large cigar, and there is a wild look on his face.]

Ps: What the hell … what the bloody hell?!!

Me: I tried to tell you.

Ps: But … but …

Me: Doc, this has been a great session! I can’t tell you how much better I feel already. I never thought that just a few minutes with you could make such a difference.

Ps: But …

Me: You, sir, are a genius, that’s all. A genius! I hope we can have lots more sessions just like this one.

Ps: *%@#!!!!

Me: Could you repeat that for me, Doc? I want to write it down–it’s pithy and I’m sure it’s valuable. Wait, never mind, I recorded our whole session so I can review it later.

Well, time’s up and I’ve got to get to another appointment. I’ll just clamber over the remnants of your office and be on my way. But I’m going to call and schedule another session with you as soon as you’ve got your clinic rebuilt. Good luck with that, by the way. Yeesh, what a mess!

——————–

That was just a few hours ago. I felt so depressed when I walked into my session with the doc, but now I feel great! It’s amazing what a good therapist can accomplish in just a single visit, and I can hardly wait for my next appointment. I have a hunch, though, that it may not be for a while.

June 27, 2012 by
Filed Under: Humor, Storm Chasing, Tornadoes, Weather Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Bow Echo at Elk Rapids, Michigan

june-18-bow-echo4
Judging from the forecast soundings, it seemed that northern Michigan stood at least a chance of tornadoes yesterday evening. But the storms that first ignited in Wisconsin quickly congealed into a broken line as they crossed Lake Michigan, minimizing their tornadic potential and fulfilling the predictions of forecast models and the knowledgeable heads at the Storm Prediction Center.

I made the trip north regardless of, from my standpoint as a storm chaser, the unpromising prognosis. I hadn’t been upstate yet this year, I was itching for a bit of convective violence in any form, and the thought of simply watching a brooding shelf cloud blow in over the beautiful hills-and-water region around Traverse City appealed to me. Given ample low-level helicity between 200-300 m2/s2, I figured I stood at least a chance of getting  some rotation out of a tail-end cell or perhaps a hook-like protrusion. But I was willing to settle for less, which is what I expected and what I got.

june-18-bow-echo3
I headed north on US 131 as far as Kalkaska. Then, with storms to both my north and west, I decided I’d be better off heading west down SR 72 and meeting the southernmost cells moving in toward Traverse City.

At Acme, I caught US 31 north, and from then on my goal was to find a good place to park and get some pics. That’s easier said than done in a landscape filled with timber. Grand Traverse Bay was almost within spitting distance, and I could see glowering, lightning-laced clouds advancing to my northwest. But, blocked by trees, the clear view I envisioned of a shelf cloud bulldozing in over the bay kept eluding me.

Finally I found myself in Elk Rapids. The town was right on the water; there had to be someplace to park with an open view.

At a stop sign, I edged out prematurely, then tapped on the brakes as fellow chaser Nick Nolte turned off the main drag in front of me. Cool–Nick was here too. I figured I’d find a spot, then give him a call. As it turned out, Nick found me first a few minutes later in the parking lot of the local marina.

“Hey, I just about ran into you at an intersection,” I told him.

“That was you?” he said. “Jerk!”

Our location was probably as close to ideal as possible, given the lay of the land. The cell to our north blew past, but the radar indicated a bow echo making its way directly toward us. I’d never have guessed from the bland-looking sky to the west. But in a few minutes, storm features began to emerge from the nondescript grayness like an old Polaroid photograph developing. A shelf cloud was advancing across the bay, growing more distinct by the second.

Nick hopped out of his car and tripoded his camera. I opted to go hand-held–not the best approach, but in this case a practical one. But my camera gave me grief; the shutter wouldn’t operate, and by the time I remembered that I needed to turn off the auto-focus, the shelf cloud was overhead. Nuts. I snapped the five shots you see below, then got in my car as the rain and wind descended in earnest.

The marina was right in the belly of the bow, and for a few minutes, I enjoyed a nice blast punctuated with lightning and commented on by thunder. Then the line moved off to the east. Nick and I decided to try and reposition in hopes of intercepting the southern end, but our attempt was futile. We ended the chase and grabbed dinner at a Big Boy restaurant in Kalkaska.

This time of year, any storm is a good storm–not that I’ll normally drive 175 miles just to see a bow echo, but I don’t need a Great Plains tornado to make me happy. After multiplied days of remorselessly gorgeous weather, a boisterous round of lightning and thunder always gladdens my heart and gets a shout out of me.

ADDENDUM: The tail-end cell, which had consistently displayed a hook-like appendage and shown an inclination to turn right, went on to produce an EF-1 tornado at a golf course near Roscommon, forty miles east-southeast of where Nick and I grabbed dinner in Kalkaska. The low-level helicity delivered after all. If the storms had been discrete, I suspect we’d have seen a few more tornado reports.

[Show as slideshow]
June 19, 2012 by
Filed Under: Life, Michigan, Nature, Outdoors, Storm Chasing, Weather Tagged With: , , , ,
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